Cure for the Common Cold
by lucky seventh
Summary: Poor, sick Arthur gets an unwanted visit from an equally sick Alfred. "Plus, if we're both sick, we can kiss without worrying about spreading germs!" USUK
1. Two Guys and a Bath

**I...was working on something more ~*dramatic*~, but I (once again) got bored and this popped into my head instead. The UK recently went through its worst recession since WW2.**

**In short: Let us revisit a time in which England caught a cold.**

**But not that one time back in WW2.**

**Also, err, I guess this is some kind of established relationship because I wanted it to be. And I had to separate it into two chapters because I'm pretty sure it would've grown to be far too long for just one, I am so sorry. This really has no plot other than being fluffy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

**

* * *

**

Bent over his desk, which really wasn't good for his posture at all, Arthur Kirkland tried to concentrate on the first bit of a large stack of paperwork piled neatly on the corner of his desk. He sniffled a few times, and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page. He coughed, had the sudden urge to scribble "fuck this" all over the page, and took another sip of his peppermint tea. A glance at his watch told him he still had another few hours to go before he would allow himself a break. After all, even if he had a slight cold—_slight_–there was work to be done. If he waited until he was well, it would just pile up to the point of hopelessness. Still, that didn't help the pounding headache he was getting from all those tiny words littering the page. Arthur groaned. He hated being sick.

The sudden ringing of the doorbell dragged Arthur from cold-induced gloom. He had no idea who would be visiting, but, frankly, he didn't care, as long as it gave him an excuse to take a break, and as long as it wasn't Francis. He immediately cursed himself for having had that thought, knowing that, with his luck, it _would_ be the perverted Frenchman.

With a sigh, Arthur shuffled down the hallway. He ended up taking a while, which had the doorbell ringing several more times before he reached the door. Whoever was out there was getting impatient; by the time Arthur turned the handle, his visitor had begun to repeatedly ring the doorbell, which certainly did not help the splitting pain in his head.

"What _is_ it?" Arthur flung open the door, fully intending to slap whoever was molesting his doorbell, when a fairly unexpected—and not thoroughly unwanted—sight greeted him.

There stood Alfred, nervously shuffling his feet and holding a rather deflated-looking bunch of roses.

"Uh, hi," he said, grinning nervously. "Um, I had business over here, but I wanted to surprise you, so...surprise?"

Arthur stared, sneezed, and replied with a flat "Your roses have wilted" before turning and marching back to his office, leaving an equally wilted Alfred behind to see himself in.

"I thought you'd be happy to see me." Alfred followed Arthur to his study, tossing his jacket to the floor unceremoniously, but keeping a protective hold on the roses. "And I even brought you flowers!"

Ignoring the other's whines and pleas for attention, Arthur plopped back down at his desk, rubbing his temples. He loved the boy, that was something he simply couldn't deny any longer, but as of now, he was just another unneeded distraction. Arthur had been hoping to finish his work early today so he could get some much-needed rest, and he hadn't even cleaned his house lately, so it was in no condition to house an unexpected guest. He shook his head, which only caused it to pound more, and picked up his pen to continue his work despite the distraction. These things needed to be finished!

Unfortunately, Arthur didn't get very far before he was once again interrupted, this time by heavy arms wrapping round his shoulders and a voice whining in his ear.

"I came _all the way here_, Arthur," the voice implored, much to Arthur's eternal chagrin. "I _missed _you..."

Arthur groaned. He could only imagine the puppy eyes that would undoubtedly be accompanying Alfred's pleading voice. He sighed, opening his mouth to say something, but instead started coughing violently. Curse that bloody cold of his. Not only did he feel miserable, but it always had a way of foiling his meager attempts at speaking properly. Not that he'd been out and about much; he felt too awful to be running all over the place.

As soon as he'd managed to get his coughing under control, Arthur felts a smooth hand on his forehead. He looked up, slightly cross-eyed.

"You're still sick, huh?" mumbled Alfred, still close to Arthur's ear.

Arthur responded with a miserable sneeze. Deeming that an appropriate answer, Arthur shoved the hand away from his forehead and picked his pen back up.

"If you please, Alfred, I'll entertain you when I'm done with my work. Please stop bothering me; you're making my headache worse."

A sudden silence and lack of excited movement sent Arthur into a state of relief as he began to twiddle the pen between his fingers. Normally, he was worried about the rambunctious boy running about and messing up his house, but at the moment, if it got Alfred out of his hair, he was willing to accept nearly anything.

_Nearly_ anything.

What he would not accept was being yanked from his chair, spun in a circle, and then picked up, one strong arm under his knees, one round his shoulders.

Horrified at the way he was being treated (particularly the spinning bit, he was sick, after all), Arthur began to squirm, attempting to kick his abductor...well, anywhere, really. It was difficult enough as it was, he wasn't going to be picky. At this, Alfred merely grinned like the idiot he was, and crooned to Arthur as if he were a grumpy child.

"Don't worry, Arthur!" Alfred said, already in the process of carrying him out of the room. "Now that I'm here to take care of you, everything will be awesome!"

And then he sneezed.

Not only did he sneeze, he nearly dropped Arthur, who immediately attempted to elbow him in the face. Arthur did not much appreciate being sneezed on or dropped, and wasn't in much of a pleasant mood to begin with.

"You bloody idiot, you're still sick?" he cried, still attempting to hit Alfred _somewhere_, though it would probably result in him landing painfully on the floor. "You can't take care of a sick person when you are sick yourself!"

"Says who?" Alfred sniffled, successfully avoiding Arthur's flailing. "Plus, if we're both sick, we can kiss without worrying about spreading germs!"

It wasn't simply the sentence that brought the blood in Arthur's veins to a boiling point. It was the way he said it so _obliviously_, as if it were the most reasonable suggestion in the world. This, and the humiliation of being carried like some invalid, finally allowed Arthur's elbow to connect with Alfred's jaw, at which he was nearly (_nearly_, damn it all) released from Alfred's iron grip.

But not quite. Much to Arthur's dismay, Alfred merely whined and nuzzled his bruised jaw into Arthur's soft hair, mumbling something about how mean it was to hit your hero. Arthur, realising his situation was utterly hopeless, groaned miserably and finally stopped attempting to injure his self-proclaimed "hero". He resigned himself to being carried through the house, wondering vaguely where he would end up. Perhaps it wasn't _so_ bad, suggested a tiny voice in his head, one he preferred to keep locked far, far away, as it had a habit of distracting him from his business. After all, Alfred _was_ rather warm, though the jostling was doing nothing for his poor head.

After a moment, Alfred stopped. Glancing around, Arthur was only barely able to determine that they were in the hall before a door was cringing kicked open, and he was deposited safely on the floor.

It took a moment for Arthur's spinning head to register exactly what was going on, and he glanced forlornly at the door before turning a glare on Alfred.

"The bathroom? Really?" God only knew what sort of idiocy the American was planning; Arthur never could understand the reasoning behind about ninety percent of the things he did.

Alfred merely grinned. "Where else are you going to take a bath?"

"I am not taking a _bath_, Alfred. I don't know what you're implying, or what you're trying to do, but I'll have you know I'm not in the mood for any of it, and I have a whole pile of work to do, and...and _what in God's name are you doing_?"

That last bit came out a bit squeaky, unfortunately, though Arthur told himself it was justified, seeing as Alfred was suddenly undoing the buttons that ran neatly down the front of Arthur's shirt.

Alfred continued, undeterred, though Arthur had begun to shove at him indignantly. "Relax, Arthur, don't you know baths are really good for colds?"

"I don't care what they're good for, you get your hands off me this instant!" Arthur attempted to wrestle Alfred's arms away from his poor shirt, which was nearly completely unbuttoned, but Alfred had apparently decided it was a good day to be stubborn and put his ridiculous strength to use. He didn't stop until he'd successfully finished unbuttoning the shirt, after which he slipped it off and tossed it to the floor.

His face was flushed merely because of his illness, Arthur told himself, crossing his arms over his chest and putting on his fiercest scowl. This was soon replaced by a horrified kind of stare, however, as Alfred began an attempt to unbutton his trousers.

"I-I beg your pardon!" Arthur stammered, indignation mixed with utter embarrassment, "But I am perfectly capable of removing my own trousers, thank you very much!" He slapped at the American's hands, tempted to...bite him, or something, simply to get him to _stay away_.

"You weren't gonna do it." Alfred, thankfully, removed his hands, but retained his dorky grin.

Finally realising the utter hopelessness of the situation, Arthur turned with a huff and removed his trousers _on his own_, still blushing—no, he was just running a fever!—as he deposited them on the floor.

"Can't take a bath with your socks," prompted Alfred, receiving another glare from the Englishman.

Removing his socks, Arthur couldn't resist throwing them angrily at his infuriating companion as he began to draw the bath. Reluctantly, he admitted to himself that a hot bath probably would help, though he didn't have to be happy about it. He sighed, waiting for Alfred to get the hell out so he could hurry up and get this over with. He still had work to do, after all.

Alfred, however, appeared to have no intention of leaving, standing there dumbly and watching the water fill up nearly to the top of the large, clawfoot tub. Arthur cleared his scratchy throat, which only served to make it hurt more. Still, it earned the desired attention of the other man.

"You're not completely undressed!" Alfred seemed to have chosen that day to point out the obvious and treat Arthur like a child at the same time. "You can't take a bath in your boxers, silly."

Arthur glared. "I am _not_ taking these off as long as you're in here."

Grinning, Alfred shrugged. "I guess you can keep them on. The point's not to get clean, anyway."

At this, Arthur sighed. He waited for Alfred to get out and leave him alone, but it soon became apparent that Alfred _still_ was not going to leave, and Arthur groaned in exasperation. Fed up with it all, he simply slipped into the tub, having run out of patience with waiting for Alfred to leave.

Arthur hissed as the hot water touched his skin. "Bloody hell, Alfred, what are you trying to do, boil me? I am not a _lobster_, though knowing your intelligence, perhaps you've mistaken me for one."

"Well, you are a little crabby."

At this, Arthur could only stare at him, knocked completely speechless by the sheer stupidity of his joke, and the way he could make such a horrible pun at all. He shook his head and closed his eyes, attempting to block everything out and concentrate on not boiling to death in the scalding water. For all he knew, Alfred could have left the room; yes, that rustling of fabric could only be him turning and marching right out of there, and—

Arthur yelped and jerked his knees up to his chest as he felt something brush his leg. His eyes flew open. Immediately after, however, he wanted to shut them and pretend this all _was not happening_; Alfred was not lowering himself into the tub, no, no, no, no, _no_.

But yes, Alfred was indeed lowering himself into the tub, and Arthur could only hope that he had kept on his boxers, for God's sake. In fact, he began to repeat this plea in his head like some sort of lifeline as he attempted to move as far to his own side as possible. The tub, thankfully, was quite large, though not so large as to allow two grown men to sit in it without at all touching. Alfred, grinning from the other end of the tub, allowed his leg to brush Arthur's, earning a strangled string of curses from the blushing Brit.

"Alfred, for fuck's sake, get out of my tub!" he yelled, slipping on the smooth porcelain lining. "This is completely inappropriate and _stop touching me, you pervert_!"

"It's just my leg, I'm not even doing anything!" protested Alfred, sinking further into the water. "And since we're both sick, I thought you'd like to save water!"

"You thought _wrong_!" Arthur contemplated getting out of there immediately and risking puddles all over his clean floor, but realised that his wet boxers were probably no longer in the most modest condition. He debated back and forth between the two options before relenting and sinking into the water up to his chin, hiding as much of himself as possible.

After a moment of silence, Alfred felt the need to break the awkwardness. "So, this is nice."

"No, it isn't." Arthur glared at him from across the tub.

"Should I have made it more romantic?" said Alfred, that blasted grin plastered back on his face.

Arthur growled. "If you had, I'd have socked you. I am complying with this ridiculous...I don't know what to call this, but the only reason I'm here right now is because perhaps there is a bit of sense to your insane logic, and I don't want to waste the water." He had to admit, the steam was already making his throat feel a little less raw.

Alfred pouted. "I thought you'd like it."

There is was, that bloody pout of his. Sighing, Arthur found he was no more able to resist that face than he usually was, finally relenting, though still not exactly happy about it. "Just belt up and let me soak."

For once, Alfred complied.

* * *

**Peppermint tea is good for colds. Unfortunately, I never have any when I actually get sick.**

**Also, I refuse to make Arthur a super-uke-face, even if he is ill.**

**Why do these always end up so much longer than I'd imagined? Though be glad, because this means it will actually be finished, since the end is in sight. It's just...uploaded separately. Also, it is 3:43 AM and I should stop writing this. If you want an idea as to the next chapter, I will give you a hint:**

**Vicks VapoRub.**


	2. Not as Planned

**Alskda I have awoken at 8 AM and have nothing better to do. I would like to thank you for your kind and generous reviews, which I am always terrified to read but they always make me very happy. I will never beg you for your reviews, however, because the only reason I'm writing these is for people to read, and it's your business whether or not you want to review. (But thanks so so so much when you do.)**

**I don't feel like adding a disclaimer for every damn chapter. Also, this had better not stretch on and on and on because I'd like to keep it just to a few chapters, though yes there will be more.**

**

* * *

**

Eventually, Arthur began to overheat, and decided it was high time he got out of the water. However, there was still the matter of his probably-rather-clingy boxers. The only solution was to tell Alfred to get out first, but it seemed he wasn't going to budge, so Arthur kicked him.

Alfred, the dense fool he was, didn't get the hint. He apparently thought Arthur was trying to...well, Arthur really had no idea what Alfred thought he was trying to do; he'd thought a kick was fairly straightforward. All he got out of this was a grin and a "no sex in the tub—when you're ill."

Scowling, Arthur sank further into the water, though it was becoming uncomfortably warm, and he was getting rather dizzy. He closed his eyes; that was it, he would just die. Right there. It was that, or risk embarrassing himself. Dying was obviously the superior choice; he would literally end up boiled to death in his own bath.

However, before Arthur could just slip under the water and boil, he was alerted to a movement on the other side of the tub. Upon opening one eye and being faced directly with Alfred's bare chest, he immediately attempted to scramble backwards. A dripping hand went to his forehead, and Arthur tried to avert his eyes anywhere but—oh lord, Alfred really was _completely naked_.

"Have you no modesty?" cried Arthur, scrambling up and out of the tub, no longer caring about the state of his own boxers. He hastily grabbed a fresh towel and wrapped it round himself. "You didn't tell me you were _naked_!"

"I thought you could tell, jeez." Alfred climbed out of the tub himself, much to Arthur's complete horror. Grabbing another towel, he shoved at Alfred, demanding he cover up _immediately_. Rolling his eyes, Alfred did as he was told, though not without some remark about how Arthur was such a prude and it wasn't like he had anything Arthur didn't.

Face flushed—from the heat!—Arthur pointed a trembling finger at the door. "_Out_," he demanded. So much for a relaxing soak; his blood pressure must be shooting through the roof. Really, that boy had no sense in that head of his.

"But Arthur," whined Alfred, "I don't have any other clothes!"

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before stalking across the tiled floor and slamming the bathroom door behind him. Still dripping, he marched to his room, closed the door, and flopped down onto his bed, exhausted and infuriated. What had he done to deserve this? He was being a good person, working even though he was miserably sick, and here was, being driven absolutely mad. He grumbled to himself.

The sound of the door creaking open pulled Arthur from his deep state of self-pity. He could only hope it was just a draft, or maybe some elf or what-have-you was playing a cruel, sick joke on him. But no, he knew, as soon as he felt a pair of familiar hands on his back—oh yes, he'd felt those hands before—that he wasn't to be so lucky. He was right, of course, ending up flipped unceremoniously onto his back.

"Are you such an old man that you need help getting dressed?" said Alfred, grinning obliviously, as always. "You're getting your bed all damp."

Arthur simply swore and rolled back over to suffocate himself in the safe folds of the comforter. "I hate you," he grumbled. "I really, really hate you."

Out of sheer idiocy, or perhaps he really hadn't heard, Alfred went about gathering the most casual-looking clothes he could find. He finally held up a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. Arthur, peeking out of the comforter (which wasn't at all suffocating enough), sighed in resignation. Pushing himself up, he snatched the bottoms away from Alfred, who then turned and began to rummage through the dresser.

"Give me a fresh pair of boxers," Arthur demanded, still safely hidden behind his towel. He ended up with a pair being tossed at his face, and nearly grabbed a book from the night stand to return the favour. He changed his mind at the last minute, opting for changing as quickly as possible and getting back downstairs to finish his work, despite the change of attire. Though really, once he had them on, Arthur _did_ feel a bit more comfortable. Not that he would admit it.

Alfred, meanwhile, had apparently found what he was looking for. He held up a ratty old pair of Superman pyjamas. "Why do you always wash my clothes for me when I leave them here?"

"Your dirty laundry is all over your house," replied Arthur, trying to ignore the embarrassing fact that he even had the other man's clothes in his house at all. "I am not going to let it be all over mine as well."

Grinning, Alfred quickly discarded the clothes he had _finally put back on_, opting instead for pyjamas. "Do you remember last time I wore these, and we-"

"_No_," said Arthur curtly, throwing the wet towel at Alfred. "Now leave me alone and let me finish my work. And hand me a shirt, while you're at it."

Alfred, shook his head. "Where we're going, you won't need a shirt."

That was it. Arthur had had it; he was not going to deal with this tomfoolery any longer. There was a stack of paperwork still waiting for him downstairs, his tea was probably cold, and now he had a bathroom to clean up, as well.

"Fuck the shirt, then," he told Alfred, turning on his heel and stalking out of the room. He could hear Alfred's whining behind him but chose to ignore it. Neither hell nor high water was going to deter him from his plan of action, and he didn't care _what_ Alfred had to say about it. His determination seemed to be working, too...until he was yanked back by the arm, neck cracking unpleasantly. He ended up slamming into Alfred's chest, completely winded.

"Sorry," Alfred said innocently, as if a simple apology would actually work. "Sometimes I forget my own strength!"

At that point, Arthur was honestly beginning to wonder if perhaps the American had some sort of evil side hidden under all that apparent ignorance. Surely he wasn't doing this all on accident! Perhaps he had heard Arthur wasn't feeling well and had purposely come to visit, bringing with him his evil plan of naked baths and whatever the hell else he was planning. Arthur contemplated this for a while, realising it made more and more sense, and before he knew it, he was being shoved roughly down onto his _good sofa_.

"Alfred!" he sputtered indignantly, appalled at the careless treatment from someone who was apparently trying to "care" for him. "I am not a ragdoll, you oblivious twit!"

"I never said you were!" Alfred plopped down next to Arthur, who was attempting to get up in one final act of rebellion, and wrapped his arms around his waist. "But you are pretty nice to cuddle."

Arthur felt his face heat up—out of anger, of course—and squirmed, ineffectively pushing at the arms crushing his midsection. This just was not _fair_. All he wanted to do was work, and...oh, bother. Maybe if he played dead, Alfred would leave him alone. And so Arthur, as a last resort, allowed himself to go completely limp.

Unfortunately, Alfred didn't get the hint and seemed to take Arthur's limpness as a sign that he was ready to behave. Arthur swore and resumed his struggling as he felt the younger man nuzzle his neck, which, while not quite unpleasant, to say the least, was most certainly _not_ getting any work done.

"For God's sake, Alfred, stop this at once!" Arthur was finding it a bit difficult to muster his full anger with warm breath tickling his neck. "I have...I have work to do, and it's not going to get done with you bothering me like this!"

He could feel Alfred's pout against his neck, which earned the younger a jab in the stomach. Wincing, he moved back slightly. "Man, Arthur, no wonder you're this sick. You're so uptight and all you wanna do is work, even when I come to take care of you."

Arthur huffed. At last, Alfred was getting the hint. About bloody time.

"Tell you what," continued Alfred, reclaiming his spot by Arthur's neck, "If you rest for the rest of today, I _promise_ I won't bother you tomorrow, okay? I'll even clean up the bathroom for you!"

Scowling, Arthur contemplated this. He didn't really want to rest, but he had to admit it was probably a good idea. He'd been working himself to the bone lately, trying to get things back in order, and he _was_ rather exhausted. Plus, he didn't really want to clean the bathroom, considering he hadn't really been the one to make the mess, so, with a sigh, he relented.

"_One _day," he reminded Alfred as he stopped attempting to hurt him. "Only one, and then you will leave me alone so I may finish my work. And you will clean up the bathroom, including all the puddles you've left, _and_ you will _never_ do this again."

With a grin that Arthur assumed meant he agreed to the terms and conditions, Alfred released his vise-like grip on the poor Englishman, moving away and standing up. Arthur considered making a break for it, but his head was still killing him, and he didn't think he'd be able to run very far without ending up in a coughing fit. He decided to be a man of his word, fearing the consequences if he attempted otherwise. Instead, he watched Alfred warily, wondering just what he was up to.

"Hold on, hold on, I'll be right back!" And off Alfred ran, leaving Arthur alone. _Finally_.

He was not alone for long, however, as Alfred soon came bounding back with a small blue jar.

Oh no.

Oh _no_.

* * *

**My mother used to try and put Vicks VapoRub on me when I had a bad cough, and it was disgusting and I hated it. I don't know if you've had that stuff on you, but it's slimy and cold and burny and smells really bad. It got really popular in 1918 with the outbreak of Spanish influenza.**

**If you can't tell, this story is growing a lot longer than I anticipated, so I'm having to break it down even more or else it would be like...forever long chapters, I am so sorry.**

**Next chapter:**

**Fun with Vicks and I forgot what else, wow.**


	3. Fun With Vicks

**I had no idea people like Vicks! I kind of want to try it again now and see if it's any better. Then again, I don't.**

**Anyway, thank you so much to the people who reviewed, favourited, and/or added this story to their alert list thing. I'm really happy there are people who want to read this. It was _supposed_ to be a one-shot, but...yes, you can tell it isn't any longer. This always seems to happen. As it goes along, I get a little nervous that I won't be able to continue to entertain people. Oh well.**

**Also, I don't recall if I mentioned that I don't own Vicks VapoRub. Just covering my bases (not that I think it really matters).**

**Is this chapter shorter? I'm sorry.**

**

* * *

**

Arthur scrambled backwards on the sofa, nearly falling over the top. "Alfred, you are absolutely _not_ permitted to bring that stuff anywhere near me! I know how bloody much you love it and all, but it is _vile_!"

"It's the best way to make yourself feel better!" Alfred insisted, already unscrewing the lid of the jar. "Here, come here, I don't want to make a mess of your furniture, do I?"

"You don't want to make a mess of _me_, either!" protested Arthur. When he had decided to comply with Alfred's ridiculous wishes, _this_ had not been among the things he had imagined dealing with. Nearly anything was better than that dreadful slime Alfred thought cured colds; something that disgusting and uncomfortable had to only make things worse. Not to mention the fact that it involved _physical contact_...

Alfred continued to advance, tossing the lid haphazardly to the side. Horrified, Arthur continued to attempt to get off the sofa and out of the room, and had nearly made it over the back, all the while trying to ignore the tickling of a cough in the back of his throat. A little further, and he would be able to run. Just when he thought he would make it, however, he was stricken by an all-out coughing fit, and a distraught Arthur slid right back to his previous position.

Grinning, Alfred stopped right in front of the Brit. "Come on, it will totally help with that cough of yours!" And with that little bit of reassurance, he shoved Arthur right against the back of the sofa, ignoring the cries of protest. It was only then, right in the clutches of an obvious madman, that Arthur noted the slightly wolf-like quality of that irritating grin. No, surely he was imagining it. This was Alfred, not _Francis_, for God's sake. He wouldn't...he _couldn't_. It just wasn't possible. Alfred was a sweet, adorable idiot, and that was all.

These poor attempts at rationalising the situation were completely derailed the moment Alfred straddled Arthur's thighs, still pressing him firmly against the sofa's back. Absolutely dumbfounded, Arthur could do nothing but stare at those mischief-tinged blue eyes that were entirely too close. He felt the heat in his cheeks spreading to the rest of his body. Oh, this was not good.

"Jeez, Arthur, you're so tense," Alfred said, still sounding innocent enough. Arthur, however, would not be fooled. As soon as Alfred removed his hand from his chest, turning to dip his fingers into the jar, Arthur began struggling, trying to shove the younger man off of him.

"This is completely inappropriate!" he cried, pushing and shoving. Unfortunately, all those burgers had made Alfred very good at weighing things down, and Arthur found himself unable to budge his attacker. The idiot merely continued to grin, leaning forward a little, fingers full of that disgusting gel.

With a sinking feeling, Arthur realised that his situation was completely hopeless. He would simply have to allow himself to be covered in that slime. At least he'd be able to wash it off, he figured, and really, Alfred was only trying to help. He was an idiot, yes, but at least a thoughtful one. Arthur sighed, resigned to his fate (again).

Alfred, however, seemed intent on not only curing Arthur of his illness, but giving him a heart attack, as well. He was not satisfied with simply rubbing his hands all over the smaller man's chest; no, of course he had to _kiss_ it, first.

"It won't be so bad, Arthur," Alfred cooed, pressing a kiss right in the middle of Arthur's chest. Arthur's breath hitched at the feeling, and he felt his cheeks positively burning as Alfred sat back, grin still firmly in place.

"Th-that is _it_, Alfred! I will not have you coming into my house and...and _molesting_ me like this!" Arthur reprimanded weakly, though his resolve was slowly crumbling. Damn those Americans and their..._attractiveness_. He closed his eyes, attempting to pretend the present situation was not happening; perhaps he was just having one of those blasted dreams again. Yes, that was it. He would wake up and everything...well, nearly everything would be fine!

Arthur's eyes flew open at the sudden feeling of something slimy trailing down his chest. Oh hell, this had been Alfred's plan all along, hadn't it? He had distracted Arthur with that bloody kissing stunt, and now he was administering the dreaded ointment. Arthur could only thank the heavens he was congested and couldn't smell the no-doubt strong smell of menthol and camphor that would accompany it.

He glared and momentarily forgot that gentlemen did not say things such as "fuck you, Alfred."

"Sorry, I wouldn't do it with a sick guy," was Alfred's response as he continued to smear the contents of the jar over Arthur's chest.

That was it. Arthur once again opened his mouth to protest; he couldn't make excuses for this kind of behaviour any longer. All these shenanigans were interfering with things that were actually important! Things such as work, and...oh, and things such as the hot lips that had suddenly covered his own, turning his attempted scolding into a sort of undignified—and muffled—yelp.

Normally, Arthur hated the feeling of that Vicks ointment spreading across his chest. He now found that it wasn't such a big deal, as long as he was distracted by a coughdrop-flavoured tongue making its way into his mouth. In fact, he no longer even noticed the gel, instead quite enjoying the feeling of those hands roaming over his chest. Why, no wonder people loved the stuff so much. It was an excellent excuse for a good snog. Arthur groaned into Alfred's mouth, pressing himself closer in an attempt to get more contact. Everything was turning out rather nicely, after all, he thought briefly, before his mind moved on to more important things.

Unfortunately, Arthur soon felt that horrible, awful, tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He tried to ignore it as long as possible. Why was it that something was always trying to distract him from his goals? First it was Alfred distracting him from his work, then it was his blasted cold distracting him from Alfred. Frustrated and no longer in the mood at all, Arthur took advantage of Alfred's distracted state to shove the American off of him, immediately breaking into a coughing fit as soon as his mouth was free.

Suddenly furious, Arthur stood up from the sofa, took a moment to catch his breath, and then pointed an accusatory finger at Alfred, who had landed painfully on the floor.

"You," he said, still sputtering from his fit of coughing, "Are an insufferable _git_!"

Alfred pouted. "I thought I was doing pretty good."

"'Well'," Arthur immediately corrected, then recalled his tirade. "And how dare you distract me like...like _that_!"

Pout increasing in intensity, Alfred stood up. "I was just trying to help! If you weren't such a stubborn old man-"

Oh, that had done it. Stubborn, maybe, but Arthur would _not_ tolerate being called old. Fuming, he stalked forward, leaving Alfred looking satisfyingly stunned and terrified at the same time. He jabbed a finger at the broad chest in front of him.

"You are an idiot," Arthur snapped, "And I am not _old_!" He shoved Alfred back, back, back into the wall, glaring. "And you're nearly as sick as I am; why don't you apply that...that _substance_ that you call medicine to yourself before rubbing it all over someone else!"

Arthur proceeded to slide his chest up against Alfred's while the poor boy could only stare, mouth agape.

"Take your bloody 'VapoRub' back, you prat," growled Arthur, not caring that he was probably not handling the situation in the best way. All he cared was that he get the gel off himself one way or another, and...well, this didn't seem to be such a bad way to do it.

When it seemed he had rubbed the majority of the stuff back onto its rightful owner, Arthur (slightly reluctantly) stepped back, scowling. Hoping he looked threatening enough to avoid some sort of retaliation for this latest stunt, he stared at Alfred, arms crossed, daring him to say something.

Wisely, Alfred said nothing.

No, he simply began to laugh instead.

* * *

**I still feel awkward writing things like this. Lalala. Actually, I feel awkward just writing fluffy things, so I don't know why I'm doing this at all.**

**I lost the rollll I was on, so this took a little longer than the others. Also, I am horribly tired. Hopefully, this will be all finished soon, because I really, really hate when it ends up dragging on forever because I'm an idiot who keeps getting new ideas.**

**Anyway, I hope nobody was disappointed with my writing, because I'm not going to bother going back to reread it and see if it makes sense. Yes, I'm lazy.**

**Next time:**

**Soup and probably cuddling.**


End file.
